Gold Digger
by Imagination Central
Summary: Stiles had grown up his whole life poor; so of course, when he is exposed to money beyond his wildest dreams, he takes it. Only, he's now considered a gold digger. He's okay with that, content to live the good life beside 78-year old Samson. That is, until he meets Derek, a wannabe bar owner, and his plans of 'the good life' go a little astray. Okay, maybe a lot astray.


**Hello! I hope that this will be the starting chapter of one of your new favorite Sterek fics! If not, then, at least you tried it, right? Buckle in and prepare yourself for some hard-ass smiles, because that's what my friend told me happened to her while she was reading. Y!**

 **Warnings: Drug use (and poor mentionings? idk if thats a trigger but maybe possibly so)**

Stiles started out the evening thoroughly unimpressed. Samson had requested that he wear something "fetching and just the right amount of sexy". So, Samson's maid/butler/servant of some kind had helped Stiles arrange an outfit that had pleased Samson. He was wearing a form-fitting white dress shirt, thin enough that if you really squinted, you could possibly imagine the shape of his nipples. Under that he wore light grey khakis, that also, not surprisingly, fit his ass very nicely. He had combed his hair up and out of the way, so it stuck out over his forehead in a casual mess of spikes. His tie was bright red, a startling relief of color alongside the greys and whites of his outfit. Olivia, Samson's helper (he was at a loss for any other word to call her, seeing as she did pretty much everything around the spacious, luxury penthouse) had tried to sway him away from the red tie, but Stiles had remained firm. How else was he supposed to retain his identity?

Samson smiled down at him, his worn, soft hand skimming over Stiles' own youthful skin. Though his touch slightly repulsed Stiles, he had grown very accustomed to hiding that fact over the year and half he had known Samson. They had met when Stiles had been working as a waiter at an expensive, highly important gala of some sort. Samson, who, admittedly, was not unattractive for someone nearing his eighties, had been walking confidently around, a golden chain hanging intimidatingly around his throat as he conversed with other stuffy, uptight businessmen about whatever product or building or organization seemed to be most pressing at the time. Stiles, having always lived just a little under 'okay' way under 'comfortable' but just above 'living on the street' had always hated these big society rich people, with pores that sweat money and clothes cut so perfectly he wondered how much time a tailor had spent checking and rechecking sizes. And how much he had been paid for his time.

Stiles had scowled, turned away from the throaty, smoky laughs, and began furiously stirring the specially ordered white pudding around, accidentally landing a drop of the thick stuff on his finely pressed red vest.

Another chuckle, much closer this time, had sounded. "Do you have something against that pudding, boy?" Samson had asked, grinning and showing off teeth so perfect they had to be fake (Stiles found out later, much to his disgust, that they were).

Smiling, Stiles had placed the spoon down and shook his head. "Getting a little carried away is my specialty, sir." Was that a flirting tone he heard in his voice?

Samson must have heard it too, because he grinned once more and leaned closer. "What's your name?"

That had been a year and a half ago, about the same time Stiles realized that he really had a thing for money. Not long after their first encounter, Samson, being the smart devil he was, had created a direct account shared between himself and Stiles. However, he did have rules, rules that Stiles respected, which were only 'if you want to spend something over a million dollars, please ask me first'.

Easy enough.

In the limo, the only way Samson went anywhere, Stiles smiled at Samson and wrapped his hands firmly around the old man's frail ones. He was no idiot. He knew he was essentially being paid for sex (disgusting, mind-scarring sex) and to be a pretty little show pony. However, he was getting paid a shit ton of money. He had finally been able to buy his dad a nice house, a new car, good insurance like he had always promised.

He almost felt bad at times, as he watched Samson work hard for money that Stiles spent weekly. But then he remembered that Samson was not an idiot either, and he probably also knew what Stiles was up to, but reputation was everything in business and what kind of businessman were you if you weren't accompanied by a youthful, sexy beau?

"Are you ready?" Samson asked, his voice cracking around every vowel.

Stiles squeezed his hand again. "Samson, how many of these things have I been to? Hmm? I think I know what to do."

Samson rolled his eyes and tapped his mahogany cane, topped off with a glistening dark blue gem, against his metal knee. "Repeat it to me, just for fun, will you?"

Stiles copied Samson and rolled his eyes as well, untangling his fingers from their dry embrace with the old man. "I stand next to you, I look pretty. I go and talk with some other businessmen, make it look like I actually help you and know what I'm talking about, stay away from the alcohol until nine."

Samson stroked his jaw with his fingers, regarding Stiles. "You should really go into acting, Stiles."

Flushing and turning to look out the window, Stiles shook his head. "I'm horrible at it, really." Lies. All of it lies.

Samson was about to say something when the limo pulled to a stop, giving Stiles the perfect opportunity to compose himself before the door was being opened by a white-gloved hand.

Sliding out after Samson, Stiles stood and fixed the rumples sitting had caused in his clothes, making sure he looked immaculate. He knew he wasn't model gorgeous, knew that no swimsuit catalog would ever beg to have him on their glossy pages. He still wasn't quite sure why Samson, by far one of the most successful men at nearly every single party, gala, and ball (Stiles had been amazed those still existed) had chosen him. He surely could have his pick of any of the angel-gorgeous, pornstar-sexy human beings out there. Yet here Stiles was, readjusting his tie, ready to plunge into the jealous stares of other frauds, clutching their less successful lover's arm.

Slipping his flexing forearm through Samson's, Stiles felt a sickening surge of pride ride through him as they walked through the ten foot tall gleaming doors, into the red carpeted entryway, felt power run wild through his veins as they were led by someone Stiles' used to be, and finally felt the arrogant smirk that always wound up on his face tug at his lips as they entered the huge ballroom suite, already quietly humming with low voices and soft laughter.

Samson must see someone of immediate interest, because he softly patted Stiles arm before drifting away, off towards some other older man with salt and pepper hair and an A+ blonde draped around his body like a French scarf. Stiles watched with mild interest before he too, began to drift.

He was charismatic, to say the least. He could talk to any and everyone, if need be. He wound up joking with ambassadors, trading gossip with models, and even sharing a forbidden wink or two with other businessmen. Of course, during the whole course of those events he could feel Samson's eyes, ever present and always watching. Strangely possessive.

From time to time he would flit back to Samson, hang adoringly around his arm and kiss his cheek. Playfully tug at his hand when he saw that conversation was getting tense. All in all, he was good. He was great. And everyone knew it.

A little while later, after some of the less important figures had left, and it was well past nine, Stiles ventured over to the bar, where a worker, waiter, bar tender, (had to be one of the three, right?) had his back turned to Stiles, his arms moving with whatever he was concocting.

Stiles, impatient, tapped his fingers against the bar and said, "Hellooo, do you have time to actually do your job?"

Okay, so, maybe that was a bit snobbish. Or a lot. But, really, at such an important event, shouldn't this guy have some pizazz?

Slowly, the man (extremely tall and already, from behind well built ((was that ass even real?)) turned around, and Stiles was so not ready for his face.

"Oh, God," Stiles muttered, his knees going a bit weak when the chiseled, strong, cut-glass jaw line moves across his line of sight, followed by a straight, almost delicate aristocrat's nose. The slight splash of stubble that wrapped around plush, soft, pink lips almost made Stiles cry. His eyes were a whole other world of intensity, light and daring and 'I'll fuck you 'til you cry, and then some'. Thick, yet somehow perfectly trimmed, brows laid overtop those beckoning eyes, and his thick hair was a shade darker than cherrywood.

Stiles' first thought, after 'oh my god' was: He has to be a fraud.

There is no possible way a man who holds that capacity of beauty within his body, on himself, can be just a waiter at this gala. There has to be something other than that going on here. Either that, or something is definitely going to change tonight. Stiles conversed with several single numbers while hooked around Samson's arm, and he knew that, gay or not, this man would attract every eye in the room.

Hopefully not Samson's, though.

"Uh, hello," Stiles finally stumbled out of his mouth, quickly leaning his forearm against the shiny golden counter, crossing his legs in turn. Casual.

"I'm sorry, I was too busy not doing my job, to hear you. Could you repeat?" The man growled, and Stiles felt weak in the knees. Again.

"Oh, you thought I was talking to you? Haha, isn't that funny? I was actually talking to that fellow right over there," Stiles pointed helplessly to his right, and to his relief, there was a young looking waiter standing there, arms crossed and ready to serve. "Hey, get back to work!" Stiles called out to him, and the poor guy looked over in confusion, his brow pulled down.

Stiles waved him away, which made the boy frown harder, then turned back to a very unimpressed man. "Kids these days, you know? You can never get a good service out of them."

The man, Derek, Stiles saw after glancing at his nametag (embroidered gold letters, very fancy, very sophisticated) glowered down at him, and Stiles smiled sweetly once more.

"Was there anything you actually needed, or did you just want to throw around your weight so you could feel as important as your ol' Pop?"

Ouch. Okay, Stiles could accept the slight stinging. After all, he couldn't really blame the guy. He had been in his shoes less than two years ago. Clearing his throat, Stiles decided that he actually would probably not end up having a quickie in the supply closet with this man, which, to say the least, was crippling in its depression. But, Stiles was always one to bounce right back. "Yeah, I'd like to order a drink."

Derek stared at him, and perhaps there was a small twitch of the lips, a miniscule curl at the corner of his mouth? Though he continued to stare, and Stiles began to fidget awkwardly, rising from his resting position. Derek's eyes immediately began to travel over his body, which, in comparison to Derek's, was laughable. But was that heat behind his eyes suddenly? A double shot of longing mixed in with bafflement?

Probably not.

But possibly yes.

Finally, the horridly uncomfortable silence ended when Derek picked up a glass and a wet cloth, and started to rub it with raised eyebrows. "Are you ever going to order, or are you just going to keep staring at me?"

Thrown into action, Stiles leaned forward on the bar, hoping he looked smoother than he felt, and raised an eyebrow haughtily at Derek. "Are you sure you're gonna be able to handle lifting a finger to work?"

What.

Where did that come from?

Stiles was mentally strapping himself onto a rocket when Derek's mouth definitely twitched, and a small surge of pride (completely guilt free this time) flowed into his veins. So maybe a change in tactics was how he should play this game.

But then Derek stopped smiling and watched him, waited some more, and Stiles realized he had been at the bar for about a good ten minutes, nine of which he had spent either ogling Derek or making strange sounds. New plan. Retreat.

"Ah, yes, can I just have a Manhattan?"

Derek grunted in what seemed to be approval, and Stiles smiled to himself. In reality, Stiles had only ever ordered vodka and beer at bars, before he met Samson. He wasn't one for fancy drinks or caring about the taste, he had just liked to get drunk, and get there fast. However, Samson, since he became Stiles' only source of income (he was a trophy boyfriend of sorts, probably the best and only way to describe it) had decided to refine Stiles' drinking habits. He had eradicated straight vodka completely, only allowed him to drink beer at home, and overall made him seem much classier in public than he really was.

However, Stiles found that he actually liked the way he sounded, the way he felt, when he ordered top-notch drinks. He felt classy and sophisticated, so far off from the real thing that it was almost like he was playing pretend. Slipping into another person's body and becoming them for a couple hours or so. But, that was acting, wasn't it?

Watching Derek prepare the drink, Stiles shoved a fist into his pants pocket, looking out over the slow sway of the crowd gathered, watching arms touch, lips move, eyes squint. He was constantly analyzing people, constantly aware of how they reacted, what they liked, didn't like, little characteristics that seemed to appear in the same type of people.

For example, businessmen. He had certainly been around enough to get a good feel for them, to understand their complex system behind how they worked. Living with one also helped quite a bit, too, Stiles supposed.

Even now, as he watched the exchanged between the men and women, he saw it in their eyes. What separated them between business and pleasure.

It wasn't just the clothes, either. While some apparel made it obvious, like the shimmering brunette clothed by thin, glimmering fabric, others did not. A couple, both dressed in crisp suits stood next to each other, talking lowly. The one on the left had calculating eyes, and he very rarely moved his hands, unless he was looking in another direction, as if to divert attention away from himself. He was looking at someone across the room, another man, who was sneaking furtive glances in return.

Stiles had made a habit of noticing things, become slightly obsessed with wanting to know why certain people ticked the way they did. What had happened to them throughout the course of their lifetime. He supposed that came with the dream of wanting to be an actor, to be up in front of the green screen, moving people with his words, being able to slip out of his worn, unknown, boring life and into a superhero's, a villains, a man trying and succeeding to make his way in the world. He knew he could pursue it, knew Samson would pay for everything, without question. But Stiles wasn't like that. He despised people like himself, people who took and took and took and only gave back fool's gold, thin and breakable and fake.

He was ripped from his thoughts when Derek placed the drink on the bar, leaning down onto it with his ridiculously thick forearms, raising his eyebrows. Stiles smiled at him, taking the glass, tipping it towards him, then swallowing with a small wink.

Derek blinked, eyes widening, mouth opening, as Stiles whisked himself away with a laugh.

He found Samson also holding a drink, which meant he had come in contact with Derek, standing next to a striking woman with graying blonde hair and crow's feet. She was wearing a suit dress, complete with shiny black heels and huge glimmering rocks wrapped around her neck.

Samson smiled when Stiles' materialized beside him, wrapping an arm around his waist. Stiles resisted the urge to glance back and see if Derek was watching.

"Stiles, I want you to meet Clara Yates, a potential business partner of mine." Samson made a polite gesture to the lady, who smiled and held her hand out daintily. Stiles grinned back, taking her soft hand and pressing his lips to her thin skin. He took note of the lack of ring on her finger.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Yates." Stiles murmured politely, returning to Samson's side.

"Oh, and a pleasure to you as well." She purred, a slow hand rising up to pat at her perfect hair. "Are you Mr. Berkeley's grandson?"

Stiles felt a small, harsh blush rise up to his cheekbones, and felt Samson beside him stiffen. "Call me Samson, please." He said with a smile, and Clara nodded and smiled pleasantly at him. Then sure turned back to Stiles, still awaiting a response. He knew that she had to know that he wasn't Samson's grandson. What grandpa holds their grandkid that intimately?

Laughing, Stiles shook his head. "No, he's not my grandfather. He's much too handsome for that," Stiles smiled cheekily over at Samson, who looked so happy that for a second Stiles' felt his heart pang with guilt in his chest.

But then he turned back towards Clara Yates and remembered that this whole thing was a game. That if he wanted to continuously be livin' the good life, he had to get it together and play his cards right without guilt getting in the way. They were older than he was, they should know the way of the world by this point.

Stiles remained at Samson's side through the duration of the conversation, then smiled at him after she left. Samson smiled back, and cupped his hand around his neck and kissed his cheek. Stiles hoped his smile didn't look too fake at this point.

"You go have fun, you've been great here." Samson said, sliding him one of his credit cards with a little wink. Stiles took the card and slipped it into his back pocket, giving Samson a returning kiss on the cheek. So fake.

"Love you," Stiles whispered, before parting from Samson. For some reason he went directly to the drinks bar, where Derek was cleaning up. The gala had ended about a half an hour ago, but no one was going to force the members here to leave. However, Derek was free to go, and the thought made Stiles strangely giddy.

Well, not really strange considering that Derek was ungodly hot and ridiculously attractive and his voice was higher than you'd think but low enough that the tenor could be felt vibrating in your tendons.

God, he needed to be laid.

Striding up to the bar with much more confidence than he felt, Stiles smiled at Derek, who looked up just as he closed the last drawer. There was something dark and pure and hot in his eyes that made Stiles belly stir. He hadn't been stirred by just a look in a long, long time.

This seemed to be a good sign.

"Well, hello again," Stiles said, lifting his hand in a little two-fingered salute/wave.

"I'm closing down," Derek replied, washing another glass clean. Wow, he looked good doing that.

"Ah, yes, I… I know." Stiles cleared his throat, hoping Samson didn't see him. "I just…" He chewed on his lip, suddenly unsure. What had he intended to do? Come over here and chat him up when Derek obviously thought him some vain fake who used people for money.

Which, yes. But also, no.

Derek shook his head, two small jerks as he dropped his head, then glanced up quickly. "Okay, meet me in the alley right outside this building, take the front entrance. It's the alley on the left, so no one will see you go directly into it."

Stiles stood frozen for a single moment, then he nodded, nearly tripping over himself in his rush to exit the building, before he realized he had to make it look casual. But before he left, he saw Samson. He didn't know how late he would be out, so he stopped at his side and told him he would be out with friends. He nodded and patted his forearm, then went back to his conversation.

Through the lush hallway and into the gleaming lobby, Stiles went over every situation that could possibly happen in a dark alley with a godsend stranger he had just met.

Ah.

Aha.

Yes, well, that didn't exactly sound like a good situation when really thought over. But Derek didn't seem like a murderer. Hopefully.

Walking slower now, Stiles took a step outside, breathing in the cool summer night air. There was a slight breeze that ruffled his hair, blowing through the fabric of his shirt. He nodded at the bellhop, who was eyeing him like he was some crazy man.

Well.

He heard the sound of a door opening to his right, and he jumped, skittering to the left side of the hotel, disappearing from view. He walked through the parking lot, fingers trailing along the side of the building, hands catching on the brick. He followed the expanse of wall until it fell into the alley Derek had described to him. It looked like this was a usual hangout for workers at the hotel, and for some reason that thought relaxed him.

When he stepped further into the alley, he found that he was alone. A sinking feeling filled his chest as he realized that Derek might have played a trick on him. Messing around with the dim-witted trophy boy. Toying with him because there were no consequences.

Swallowing back his hurt, Stiles frowned hard, starting to turn out of the alley when a voice stopped him.

"You don't have much patience, do you?"

Relief swelled in his chest and he blew out a sigh. Turning back around, he grinned at Derek. "I live life fast, I don't have the time to wait for slowpokes like you." Another lie. Tiny, though. Not as heavy on his chest.

"Ah, so I'm a slowpoke?" Derek asked, bringing something from his pocket.

Stiles tensed, nervously fisting his hands in his pockets. Maybe this was an actual murder.

Derek, noticing Stiles sudden discomfort, held out the object. The low lighting didn't really help Stiles understand what it was, but the outline wasn't a gun shape. Probably.

"Don't worry, I'm not going to murder you," Derek pulled something else out of his pocket, clicked it, and a flame burst from it. A lighter. He cupped a hand around the flickering flame, held it up to the first object, pulling away when it lit.

And, oh.

Oh.

Yeah, Stiles should have seen that coming. There was really no other reason to meet in an alley other than, nasty, dirty sex, which Stiles wasn't really into doing it next to the Dumpster, thank you, the murder someone, or to do drugs. Since neither of the former were obviously going to happen, Stiles wasn't exactly sure why he was so surprised. Perhaps because it was the first time he had been exposed, in the first person, flesh to smoke, to it. And he wasn't sure if he would say yes or no, because he really didn't want to become a druggie, like really badly did not want that, but he also kind of really wanted to know what it felt like.

Sure enough, Derek offered his hand, the rolled blunt sitting brown and fat in his elegant fingers, and Stiles studied it for a moment before taking it from Derek's hand.

It felt strange in his hand, thicker than a cigarette but not quite like a cigar, the texture was off, or something. Stiles' eyes flitted up to Derek's light ones, which were watching him, a small smile on his lips.

"Yeah," Stiles began, still awkwardly holding the blunt between his thumb and pointer finger. "How do you, uh, do it?"

Derek hid another smile behind a fist and came forward, suddenly extremely close and warm and hard muscled and young and wow, Stiles forgot how great young people feel.

"You hold it up to your mouth," Derek whispered, and Stiles wasn't sure if he was whispering because he was close or if he was trying to seduce him but either way it was working.

Stiles did as he was told, placing the glowing blunt in his mouth, awaiting further instruction. Derek's hands came around from behind, running gently up his exposed forearms before reaching his shoulders.

"Now, close your eyes," His words floated out of his mouth and draped themselves hotly across Stiles. He was helpless to ignore the command. As his eyes closed, he felt his stomach stir with something thick and hot and oh god, that was definitely arousal.

"Ok," Derek breathed, "now take a deep breath through your mouth."

Stiles complied, and was surprised, for some odd reason, when his lungs filled with smoke. He tried to cough it out, but soft, huge hands removed the blunt from his mouth quick as lightning, then covered his nose and mouth.

Again, Stiles was convinced he was going to die, so he began struggling for about a second before Derek released him.

Letting out the smoke in a grey cloud of coughs and tears and hacks, Stiles tried to regain his breath. Derek offered him water, (where the fuck had he gotten that from?) and Stiles gratefully swallowed it down. When he finished recovering, he handed it back, still panting.

"Jesus, Derek, what the fuck were you doing?" Stiles asked, looking up at him from where he was leaning on his knees.

The bastard looked unapologetic as he took a long drag from his blunt, unblinkingly regarding Stiles. He took a minute before he blew the smoke out of his mouth and replied. "You won't get high if you smoke it and then cough it out. You've got to hold it."

Stiles was actually starting to feel very dizzy, so he sat down on the cool, slightly damp cement. The world continued to spin, but it wasn't as daunting from down on the ground. "So…" He fogged out, suddenly sure he was feeling the effects by this point. "Soo… you, you, decided to choke me?"

Yeah, his wit had left him. He wasn't really sure he liked this stuff.

A sudden wave of pleasure crept up his forearms, slow and calm like a stretch, making him relax into the cement. Okay, maybe he did like the stuff. "Hey," he reached his arm out, grasping with his fingers. Derek, now apparently also loose, but not as far gone as Stiles, gave him the blunt, watching him with hooded eyes.

"Where're you from?" Derek asked, voice low, the tenor tickling around the edges of Stiles' hearing. He was concentrating on inhaling, and after the first one it was a lot easier to hold in before he let it go in a slow trickle that he thought looked bomb ass floating from his mouth.

Derek, apparently, thought the same thing. Stiles was watching him as he did it, tendrils of smoke curling lazily in the air as they floated from his mouth, and Derek's hands tightened on his thighs before he dropped much too swiftly to eye level, grasping Stiles' jaw.

"Your fucking mouth," he murmured, trailing his thumb over it, and Stiles was helpless against the urge to let it open at Derek's command, his skin tingling in all the right places. "is obscene." Derek said it like a swear, cupping Stiles' jaw at the same time.

Stiles was having a hard time processing this, the everything of it, especially because, while the world had calmed it's tits and was no longer spinning the fuck out of control, his brain had evaporated into a mist that was still slightly flowing out of his mouth. But shit, it couldn't be that bad if it felt this good, could it?

Derek removed the blunt from Stiles' limp fingers and returned to his lounging place on the wall, and Stiles smiled dumbly up at him. "I'm from Beacon Hills," Stiles suddenly slurred out, remembering the question with clarity. "Kind of a small place, wouldn't expect you to know it."

Derek's heavy gaze suddenly lightened and his eyes went wide. "You're from Beacon Hills?"

Stiles rolled over onto his stomach, watching the flashing lights of the cars and taxis passing by. "Yeah, did you know there were wolf sightings there? Isn't that fucking hella? Wolf sightings in California. Bomb ass," Stiles sighed and rested his head on a cockroach. There was a definite crunch, but Derek was too busy staring at Stiles' ass to be concerned about the indestructible cockroach.

"That's weird," Derek finally managed, choking a bit on the smoke in his throat. Stiles watched it simmer and slip from between his plump, soft looking lips and felt his dick twitch. He glanced down and shushed it, patting at his crotch softly. "I'm from Beacon Hills too," Derek went on, his voice a little hoarse from coughing.

Stiles, in the daze he was, could only muster slight surprise by raising his eyebrows. "No shit. Small fucking world." He leaned back to stare at the sky, and he thought, maybe if they were in Beacon Hills, they would be able to see the stars. But here, with the lights and the city smog blocking them, there was nothing but a dark haze.

"How'd you end up here?" Derek prompted again, bending low to let Stiles lean forward and suck a long pull from his hands, their eyes connected the whole time. Once he was done, he held it, then let the smoke run through his lips like water through his fingers. Soft and slow and mesmerizing.

Blinking, Stiles rubbed his eyes hard, so hard he thought that maybe his eyeballs had been shoved back into his brain, then sighed. "Oh, this and that. I thought that NYU was where I was destined to go, but turns out, nope." He chuckled, pulling long, elegant fingers through his unruly hair. "I flunked out of first semester and we didn't have any more money to, ya know, get me back into any college at all, so I just found myself odd jobs, here there, anywhere. There are a lot of those kindsa jobs here in the city. We didn't have enough money to buy me plane tickets back, so I stayed, rented out a shit apartment for a hundred bucks a month, and pretty much lived that way for about a year. Then," Stiles glanced over, and was surprised to find Derek watching him intently. "I met Samson."

There was this feeling in his chest.

This strange, odd feeling. Like, almost… disappointment. But what was there to be disappointed about? Nothing. He went from shit to shat (in a good way?) and had no right to complain.

Derek was still watching him, assessing, analysing, drawing smoke from the almost gone blunt.

"Well, I came here out of curiosity. I want to own a bar someday, not a real popular joint, something casual, good rep, great booze. You know, like Denny's place down the street?" Derek let out an 'ahh' sound, his head fall back, hands falling against his thighs, like he was imagining a really fucking good Thanksgiving dinner, which, by the way, sounded fucking amazing at the moment. "That's what I want." There was so much longing in his voice, pure (not sexual, thank God, or Stiles would have lost his shit) and true. At that moment, as Stiles was taking in Derek, he wanted nothing more than for him to have his bar.

Then an idea struck him.

"Samson," he warbled, blinking excitedly. Derek looked over at him, blinking back.

"What?"

"Samson, Mr. Berkeley, my fucking bajazillionaire boyfriend. He can buy you that bar." Stiles smiled, getting to his feet slowly.

Derek's face closed down in an instant. Tight, stone-cold. "No." He said, turning his head (what the fuck that profile should be illegal) as he took another long drag from his blunt.

Confusion swept through Stiles' body. "What? Why not?" He reached out, compelled by some mysterious force to touch Derek's stubble. It was rough, stranger than he expected, but somehow perfect against the smoothness of Stiles' own palms. Derek was looking at him, and his eyes were guarded, but the touch seemed to be breaking his barriers down. "You'd have your dream," Stiles whispered, light fingers tracing wonderingly along Derek's face, skimming over his cheekbones, brushing over plush lips, lightly smoothing over his brows.

Derek had gone into some kind of trance the second Stiles had started to touch him, and now he was unmoving, breathing in slowly, breathing out just as slowly. He smelled like musk, cologne, and dank ass shit.

It was a startlingly pleasant combination.

Stiles, however, probably smelled like prunes, dank ass shit, and whatever soap he had used before washing, which, with his luck, was the baby soap Samson loved.

"Do I smell like babies?" Stiles asked, pulling away quickly, sniffing himself. Oh, god. He smelled like alleyway. "Oh my God I smell nasty." Stiles turned away, waving a hand in front of his face.

Derek was still staring at him, an odd gleam in his eyes. "Do you have sex with Samson, or are you more like his show pony?"

That stopped him cold, though, and Stiles turned around. Then he started laughing. "Unfortunately, yes. It's so much worse than on porn." Stiles stumbled over to where Derek was still leaning, watched as he sucked the last bit out of his blunt then threw it on the ground.

"I, when I first met him and shit," Stiles began, using his hands quickly. "He linked our fucking bank accounts so I was like, 'holy shit I'm gonna have to lay him' yanno? So I looked up old men porn, and at first I thought I could handle a little shriveled up penis, I could think of it like eating a bigger raisin, like, just sucking on a raisin, right? Wrong. So fucking wrong, oh my GOD. Samson's dick is like an empty sac of skin with a small ball at the very back, also, not to mention, hairy."

Stiles stared at the wall a couple seconds before Derek broke into a fit of laughter. His laugh, thick, rich and pure was so contagious that he had Stiles' crying with tears within the minute. His hand went to Derek's shoulder to balance himself, and when they had laughed themselves out, he left it there.

Derek sighed and dropped his head against the brick wall of the alleyway, turning his head to look at Stiles. "You didn't have to sleep with him, you know. Just because he gave you money doesn't mean, like, you have to sleep with him."

Stiles nodded, eyes growing heavier. Sleep sounded great at this point. "Yeah, I know. But…" Stiles broke conversation to yawn. "He would have… taken.. taken the money.." his head lulled, falling against Derek's shoulder.

The older man looked down at him, a concerned wrinkle forming between his brows. He prodded Stiles, but to no avail. He was out. Sighing and hefting him into his arms, Derek walked out of the alleyway carrying him (which probably looked fucking suspicious as fuck) and carried him over to the road, trying to hail a taxi with his foot.

Finally, one pulled to a stop in front of him, and he slid in with Stiles, placing him gently against the seat next to him. Leaning forward, he told the taxi driver his address and they were on their way.

During the ride, Derek couldn't make his fogged mind stop touching Stiles in some way, holding his hands, combing through his hair, stroking his cheek. He probably looked like some psychotic serial killer, but for the life of him, he couldn't find it in himself to care. He tried to pretend, the closer they got to his house, that he was bringing Stiles over to his place because that was the only option, the best option, for him. He knew it wasn't he could have phoned Samson or forced him awake or even asked the taxi cab driver to take them to Samson Berkeley's place and help Stiles from there. But he hadn't. Stiles was going to sleep on his couch tonight, instead of in a luxury satin covered mattress with Samson at his side.

The thought brought fierce pleasure to him, and he pulled Stiles' hand closer. If it was only for a night, what harm could one boy, one adorable, perky nosed boy, do?

As it would turn out, a lot.

 **Thank you for reading, and, as I said, above, I hope you enjoyed! (Leave a review if the mood strikes)**

 **-IC**


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